


would you stay if she promised you heaven?

by scorpiod



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Brienne is the Best, Cunnilingus, Established Relationship, F/F, Loyalty, Margaery Tyrell Lives, Post-Canon, Queen in the North, Threesome - F/F/F, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-03
Updated: 2019-06-03
Packaged: 2020-04-07 01:02:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19074307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scorpiod/pseuds/scorpiod
Summary: Margaery has Brienne escort her to Winterfell, to be the new Queen in the North's hand. Brienne stays for a while.





	would you stay if she promised you heaven?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rosecake](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosecake/gifts).



> Fic title from _Rhiannon_ , because I listened to a lot of Fleetwood Mac writing this.

A few days after Bran had become King Bran, Brienne learns Margaery Tyrell survived the explosion at the Sept, presenting herself to Brienne in disguise.

Her brown hair chopped shoulder length and colored black, her dress more like rags than the elegant gowns she's seen her wear at court. She won't explain how she survived, and Brienne wants to ask, wants to know where she went, how did she hide for so long, but when the subject is broached, her eyes fill with tears and it is clear her brother did not survive with her. 

Margaery Tyrell is The Last Rose, but Bronn still has Highgarden. 

Margaery is openly displeased when Brienne tells her that, her pretty mouth curving into a hard line, her eyes steely. Brienne worries about a civil war, yet again, and she knows she'll fight for Margaery, if she asks—Highgarden _should_ be rightfully hers.

But Margaery never asks to help her take back Highgarden. She wants to leave the South to go North. To Winterfell. 

“You'll give up your family's seat?” Brienne asks.

“It's not safe for me here,” Margaery says. “Not anymore. I need to leave this country. For now, at the very least.”

“King Bran is a good and just king,” Brienne says, believing it to be true, as unnerving as the young man can be. 

“Yet he gave my lands to a common sellsword,” Margaery sneered. 

Brienne shrugs. There's not much to say. “You could have revealed yourself sooner and kept your lands, but you may not have survived the razing of King’s Landing.”

Margaery shudders, wrapping her arms around herself. 

Brienne doesn't probe further and Margaery doesn't argue. She takes her to Winterfell, as asked. King Bran seems to know why before she even asks if she could leave for a while, simply asking to say hello to his sister for him. 

Brienne can hardly blame Margery for wanting to leave King's Landing. The city is nowhere near rebuilt. 

There are still finding bodies.

\------

Sansa is radiant when they arrive. She greets Brienne with a fond, sincere smile, sitting on her new throne, crown on her head. Her throne is a gorgeous cut of wood, even and leveled with her people in the Great Hall, not rising above them. There are wirewood leaves and wolves carved into it. She looks right on it, like it was always meant for her, not any of her brothers.

“I heard you were in need of a Hand,” Margaery says, lowering her hood. She is dressed plainly, but her brown hair returned during the journey on the Kingsroad. Soon, she'll look like herself again, the golden rose. 

Queen Sansa blinks, her eyes blank as she regards Margaery. Brienne cannot remember the last time they must have seen each other. She remembers the wedding that ended with Joffrey's death, and how Sansa Stark disappeared quickly after, into thin air. 

Then Sansa gets off her throne and rushes over, pulling Margaery into a tight embrace that surprises even her, Margaery letting out a soft gasp. She murmurs something Brienne can't hear, and she feels like she is intruding a private moment, even out here in the public hall. 

She goes to take her leave, and both Sansa and Margaery pull away from their embrace to glance back at her. 

“No, please,” Margaery says, but it's Sansa who reaches out, her arm outstretched, entreating, silently pleading with her body. 

“Stay,” they both say, and Brienne cannot deny them.

\------

“Why did you ask me to take you here?” Brienne asks the Lady Margaery later, the two of them sitting in a private room Sansa had given them both, a fire roaring gently beside them. She's changed into a gray dress, one of Sansa’s. A little long on her, as Sansa has grown taller than her in the time they've seen each other. Sansa will have another gown made for her, to show the Tyrell colors off in the Great Hall of Winterfell, to showcase the united front between Queen Sansa Stark and Southron Lady Margaery from Westeros. 

“I needed to get out of the south,” she says, then pauses, humming to herself. “Out of Westeros, I suppose, now that the North is an independent kingdom—”

“No, why me?” Brienne repeats. She expects a diplomatic answer, some kind of doublespeak, or a riddle, a Lady's courtesies. 

Instead, Margaery stares at the fire for a moment, watching the flames, and she gets up, walking over to Brienne, kneeling down beside her. Brienne is startled, but before she can say anything, or even move, Margaery reaches up and strokes her face, ever so gently. Far more gently than Brienne had ever imagined. A soft touch, with soft hands, and her eyes softer still. 

“You avenged our Renly,” Margaery says, grief thick in her voice. “You have proven yourself over and over. There are precious few people in Westeros I can trust, myself included, and you are one of those trustworthy few.” She stops then, closing her eyes for a moment. 

“My grandmother thought you were amazing,” she adds. Brienne closes her eyes, humbled by her grief and pain.

“You honor me. I'm sorry about your loss, my lady,” she says. It feels woefully inadequate. 

Margaery laughs softly. It sounds like bells. Her eyes gleam like a cat’s. “We've all lost someone in this war.”

\------

Winterfell has taken some time to be rebuild. The people have dwindled, entire great houses gone for good, and the North was nearly a graveyard in certain places. The gloom of winter had nearly overtaken the country, and yet the people were of good cheer, glad to be alive, with enough food to last. Winter was almost over, the season going by unusually fast, as if the death of the Night King had quickened the seasons. 

“Can we call it Springfell?” Margaery asked, quietly and dry, in the great hall, but Sansa had smiled at her rather than take offense, folding her hand over hers. It was a strangely intimate gesture, beyond that of a Queen and her Hand.

Sansa decides to take a bath in the hot springs of Winterfell, wanting to relax in one of Winterfell's great luxuries. Brinne insists on standing guard. 

“This is outdoors, your grace. We are recovering from a war. Is this wise?” It's not as if the water from the hot springs aren't pumped into the great castle, pipes running throughout. 

“I haven't done this since I was a child,” she says, and Brienne feels her heart clench. In many ways, Sansa should still be a child, still a young girl. She deserves the chance to simply relax in her kingdom. She doesn't argue with the queen any further. 

“Besides,” Sansa says, removing her clothes, with a dazzling smile. “You are here with me. I am perfectly safe.” 

Margaery walks over not long after, making her way towards Sansa. 

“Your Grace is bathing,” Brienne informs her, thinking that perhaps Margaery had important Hand business to tell her about. Surely, it could wait?

Margaery smiles. Her eyes gleam. “Oh, I know.” 

Her dress drops and for a brief second, Brienne cannot help but stare—pale skin from too much time in the North, supple breasts with dark brown nipples, and slender thighs; the kind of woman Brienne had longed to be, once upon a time—before turning away, determined not to think about it. 

If the rest of Winterfell sees Sansa bathing with her beautiful Hand, well—they don't seem to concern themselves with it, perhaps too war weary, too tired of death and pain and cold, to give weight to such concerns.

\------

“Stay with me,” Sansa asks her at night, in the godswood. “Be in my Queensguard. I know it's selfish of me. You should be guarding my brother. But I want you to stay with me, Ser Brienne. I'm sure Bran would allow it.” 

_Ser_ , she calls her, and it makes Brienne shudder with warmth, beam with pride. _Ser Brienne_. 

Sansa approaches her, inappropriately close. Her hand strokes Brienne's cheek, as she looks at her. “I've always wanted a knight,” Queen Sansa tells her. “Someone strong and brave and true. Someone from the songs. Most men aren't good, but _you_ are”

Brienne doesn't know what to say. She wants to kneel, bend the knee, throw herself at Sansa's service, but she's held still, in place by her touch. “Your grace— ”

“I don't always have be to be a _grace_ ,” Sansa says. “You don't have to always call me _your grace_ , or my queen. Not here in front of the gods. Not when we are alone.”

Gently, she cups Brienne’s face in her palms now, both hands on her face. They are warmer than a Northern queen should be, and Brienne for a moment, thinks she might kiss her. 

“Sometimes I just want to be Sansa.”

“What are you saying?” Brienne asks.

“Come to bed,” Sansa says, sweet as honey. “It's so cold here in the North.”

“But,” Brienne starts, at a loss, her heart pounding. “You and Margaery?”

Sansa smiles. Brienne is reminded of what Jaime had said once, _by what right does the wolf judge the lion?_

“I'm queen now,” Sansa says, her blue eyes gleaming with mischief. She's still so young. It's hard to remember that, for all that it seems like Sansa had aged decades since she first found her. “If I want to take my pleasure with two of my favorite women, I don't see why we shouldn't be allowed to.”

\------

It should feel depraved to be in bed with two women, and even more so to bed both the queen and her hand. But with her hands tangled in Sansa’s ruby silk hair and her mouth on hers, it doesn't feel depraved. Margaery is lovely; Sansa is kind and gentle. Sansa’s kiss is unlike anything Brienne has ever experienced, and the two of them together is a beautiful sight to behold. 

“Have you ever kissed a maid before?” Sansa asks when she pulls away, her face flushed, breathless and wide eyed. Her hands on Brienne’s chest, over her armor. Brienne remembers breathless maids in the songs, and gallant knights. 

Brienne pauses before answering. “I'm not a maid anymore,” she says carefully. 

Sansa grins and for a moment she is not a queen, but a girl of both summer and winter. “I know,” she says, eyes alight. 

Sansa has Brienne remove her armor, watching her intently as she strips, occasionally reaching out to touch as well, to stroke the exposed skin. Behind Sansa, spread out on the queen's bed, watched Margaery, her chest heaving with excitement. 

“Your small clothes, too,” Sansa says, running her hands down her arms. The hair on Brienne’s arms stand up. Her body extraordinarily sensitive to touch right now, hair standing on end, Sansa’s touch sparking a fire in her veins. 

“You're still fully clothed,” Brienne says. 

It's not a protest. Just a fact. It is perhaps a little unfair.

But Brienne removes her clothes, and Margaery makes appreciative noises from the bed. Her dress is undone and pulled down just low enough to expose her breasts, her legs splayed wide and indecent. Her hand is between her legs, rubbing her cunt languidly as she watched them both, like she had all the time in the world to pleasure herself. Brienne could not see her cunt, but only because her hand obscured her vision. 

She inhales sharply. Lady Margaery is stunning. She never thought she'd get to see this. She never dared to think too long of it. 

“Don't be nervous,” Sansa whispers in her ear. She runs her hands down her body, over the raised scars, the neat and the ugly ones, then reaches up to cup a small breast in her palm, and strokes her nipple. “You're perfect.”

“Your _grace_ ,” Brienne gasps. She feels overheated, warm everywhere. She can feel her cunt grow slick and throb as Sansa touches her. It makes her cheeks turn red. 

“You are quite pretty when aroused,” Margaery says, softly, as if they weren't meant to hear. Between her legs, her hand speeds up and Margaery moans, a strange throaty sound she's never made before. 

“See? Perfect,” Sansa says, kissing her again. Sansa is tall, but not as tall as Brienne, and it's easy for her to slide down and kiss her breasts. Brienne gasps as Sansa takes a nipple into her mouth, suckling softly at the small nub and letting it thicken in her mouth. Another hand reached to hold Brienne by her waist. 

She wants to cover herself for a hot, shameful moment, remembering all the times she'd been called a beauty in such mocking tones, men making comments and japes about the lack of breasts she had, her ridiculous stature with her lack of womanly features, and the moments where Jaime had reassured her none of that mattered.

Margaery removed her dress suddenly. Or was it sudden? It feels as if she tore her eyes away from Sansa only to see her naked. The last time had been a stolen glance. Now it was full on—her breasts on full display, her cheeks and chest red, her cunt pink and glistening with wetness.

Margaery smiles at her and licks her fingers. 

Before Brienne can even react, Sansa kneels down, her mouth hot against her skin, over her belly now—Brienne feels scandalized, gasping and crying out as Sansa kisses all the patches of skin she can, like Brienne's body is a feast for her.

“Spread for me, please,” Sansa asks, the question so soft and yielding that Brienne cannot help but obey, parting her legs as wide apart as she could while still standing. 

Gently, two fingers slide in between her folds, drawing a soft cry of pleasure as Sansa's fingers brush against her clit. 

“ _Oh_ ,” Sansa says, sounding genuinely surprised, out of breath. “You're so wet.” One finger slips inside Brienne easily, breaching only slightly, not enough to feel stretched or burn, only the tip, but enough to make her shudder and moan with pleasure, made all the more intense by Margaery watching as she continues to touch herself

Brienne worries she may climax right then. Just from the sight alone. 

“Bring her to bed,” Margaery says, as if she could read her mind—her hair is messy and she is rubbing one breast with her slick fingers. Brienne wants to see what sucking on them would be like, a thought not quite foreign, but one she had not allowed herself to have. “I want you both.” 

Sansa stands up and leads Brienne by the hand to the bed, lightly urging her down until she's laying on it, flat on her back. 

Margaery kisses her then, straddling her chest and leaning down above her. Brienne gasps, caught by surprise—for some reason, she thought Margaery only wanted to watch her and Sansa together. Her mouth tastes of sweet wine and something briny—her own cunt, Brienne realizes and moans. Sansa is rubbing her legs, her gentle hands exploring the skin there. 

When Margaery pulls away, Sansa is there behind her. She kisses her over her shoulder, and slides a hand down in between her legs, drawing muffled moans out of Margaery, swallowed up by Sansa's mouth. They are a beautiful picture, a gorgeously forbidden one, red and brown against each other. 

Brienne, not entirely sure what she's doing, sits up as much as she can, and kisses Margaery’s perfect breasts, softly wrapping her mouth around her nipple. She licks it softly, not sure if she should suck, or lick or bite down or both, but Margaery doesn't seem to mind. 

“Seven Hells,” Margaery gasps, breaking the kiss, shaking and spasming. The walls of her cunt seem to throb, and she realizes she came, just like that. 

“Yes,” Sansa says, kissing her throat this time, then her shoulder. Brienne does not know when the young queen found the time to learn how to kiss and make love to women so well. 

Then Sansa is pulling back and Margaery slides down her body, until she's between her legs. Brienne allows her there, parting them wider for her and she buries her face between her slick folds. The first touch of her tongue makes Brienne forget herself entirely, her shame, her own sense of decency and decorum and honor. She did not realize how much her own cunt had been aching for this, spreading her legs wide and wanton and desperate for more, and Margaery so eager to provide, moaning in tandem with her. 

Brienne cants her hips up and curls her hand in Margaery’s dark hair, trying not to pull on her hair. Margaery sucks gently on her clit then, pressure and vibration and friction, and Brienne makes an obscene, throaty sound, like an animal, thrusting up into it

She pulls away then, and Brienne wants to apologize, shame flooding her, she didn't mean to be so eager, but then Sansa kneels between her legs and begins to devour her cunt, lapping at her slick and pushing her tongue inside her. 

It doesn't take very long for Brienne’s orgasm to crash against her, with two of Sansa’s fingers inside her, her mouth lapping and sucking at her clit as Brienne shakes her way through her climax. 

Afterwards, Sansa kisses her, her mouth and chin covered in her own juices, hot and sticky. She runs her hands in her short hair as they kiss—a mess, it must be, sticking up with sweat, but neither of them care. Margaery relaxes against her, idly rubbing circles on the skin of her thighs, burying her face in her skin. 

“You're beautiful,” Sansa says softly, like a prayer, against her lips. Her hands stroke her hair. “I know you don't think so but—you are.”

Brienne has no response. Her natural instinctive one is to become defensive, turn away from such praise, _Brienne the Beauty,_ a name that was only ever a cruel jape. Sansa saying it didn't make her so—but with both their eyes upon them, slick with sweat and fluids, perhaps she'd transcended some earthly bounds, they all have.

They do much more to each other that night, before falling asleep together, on the large bed, bodies plastered together. Sleep comes easy that night, the three of them curled around together like a braid. 

It doesn't feel depraved. It feels like coming home.


End file.
